


Poste Restante

by AlphaFlyer



Category: Avengers (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Hawkeye/MCU Crossover, Marvel 616/MCU Crossover, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22870825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaFlyer/pseuds/AlphaFlyer
Summary: The vials with live pathogens, the alien prosthetics and the ant colonies aren't the worst things Clint's friends drop off at his place for each other.  Matters don't really get hairy for Kate until Natasha Romanoff shows up with a heart-shaped box that says "Neuhaus".
Relationships: Clint Barton & Kate Bishop, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 41
Kudos: 113
Collections: Be Compromised Promptathon





	Poste Restante

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inkvoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkvoices/gifts).



> Written for the _Be_compromised_ Valentine’s Mini-Promptathon, for _Inkvoices_. It’s a bit of a riff on her prompt that “due to having an address and an actual front door, Clint’s place is the official Amazon delivery address for at least five superheroes.” 
> 
> Also, I LOVE the comics canon bit of Clint and Natasha having been together early in their superhero/SHIELD lives, and that whole rekindled flame thing hinted at in Avengers Assemble #5. (I’ve used versions of that a few times…nothing like a good trope!) Oh yes, this is not Age of Ultron compliant, not one little bit. Unbeta'd, because RL coupled with posting deadlines is Not A Good Thing.

“Sign here, please.”

The delivery man shoves some gadget in her face, and points to the grey field. He looks a bit like the FedEx Guy in _Legally Blonde_ , the one who always turns up in shorts, but a lot more resentful. Signatures take time, and Kate suspects he’d have preferred to drop the box on the front steps, leaving it there on the near-zero chance that it might still be there the next time Clint shows up.

She tries to make the stubby little pen move in something vaguely resembling her name and hands the thing back, in exchange for a rectangular parcel with a sticker that says _Keep Refrigerated!_ and another that says _Keep Away From Food!_ Oh, and this:

_Bobbi Morse, c/o C. F. Barton,_ it says on the address label; the sender is some lab in Wisconsin. What’d she ask for this time, a new strain of Ebola? The latest incarnation of coronavirus? And sent it to her unsuspecting Ex, why? To make a point?

Kate sighs. More likely, Bobbi is running around with that rogue little band of SHIELD leftovers again, chased by aliens and unable to hold down a fixed address. Someone really should have a word with Coulson about that, it can’t be good for her second marriage.

But for now, there’s a more pressing problem: The truck peeling away from the curb doesn’t look like it has a refrigeration unit onboard. Kate can see the headlines now: _The New Black Death – Ground Zero in Bed-Stuy?_ She briefly considers dropping the package on the sidewalk and going upstairs for some arrows to use as chopsticks, but it’s probably already too late and so she just carries it upstairs, careful not to trip over Lucky.

Clint’s fridge is pretty clean; when she’d first come to stay at his place to dog sit, it had been full of things able to compete with whatever is in the box. No more. As a friend of Clint’s Kate is no stranger to slovenliness, but she draws the line at tribble-haired wontons, so for the moment the deadliest thing in the fridge is a carton with a slice of day-old pizza. She pulls the carton out with her foot and flings it in Lucky’s direction, eliciting an enthusiastic yelp followed by the sounds of ripping cardboard and bad table manners.

The pizza gone, there’s enough space now for the new arrival, right above Thor’s twelve-pack of Norwegian mead which had arrived the day before, courtesy of some butch-looking chick on a flying white horse. Quite a ruckus she’d caused among the tenants, landing on the rooftop like that, and couldn’t have cared less. Some day Kate wants to be like that- confident, not giving a shit - although the armour looked a tad uncomfortable.

“He’ll come by and pick it up eventually,” she’d said. “I’m sure of it. Thor can smell mead from several galaxies away.”

“Then why not keep it, and let him come to you?”

It had seemed a logical question, but Pegasus Lady just looked at Kate with pity in her eyes.

“He won’t. He’d be afraid I’d hand him some responsibility along with the booze. No, you just keep it - it’s his fifteen-hundred-and-third birthday next week, and he deserves a little treat. He won’t be long, I’m sure. This galaxy isn’t that big. Tell him Korg made it. He and Miek are getting into brewing.”

And with that she’d flown off, leaving Kate with a case of mason jars filled with what looked like burnished moonshine and a few flying horse apples on the roof, which Simone claimed for her tomatoes.

Kate closes the fridge door and mops her forehead. Three weeks in Clint’s apartment, and it seems the place is doubling as a drop box for any homeless or incognito superhero out there. Who knew?

She eyes the prosthetic leg leaning up against the kitchen island beside a couple of her quivers. It doesn’t look human. The mohawk’d dude in the funky leathers who’d dropped it off said he needed to make good on a promise, but he had to get back to space right away, so would she mind just…?

 _For Rocket,_ it says on the tag tied to the wildly protruding extra kneecap, _From Kraglin. We’re even now so just shut the fuck up, rodent._

It seems for some reason that the flotsam and jetsam of the galaxy looks at Clint’s place like one of those mail box places that hitch hikers used in the dark ages, before e-mail and instagram. _John Smith, c/o Poste Restante, Timbuktu:_ Hold until someone picks it up, and hope it won’t disappear.

Except in this case it’s _Superhero X, Y or Z,_ _c/o Hawkeye’s Pad, New York,_ and what’s lying around in this post office is a lot more than letters from Mom, or the occasional traveller’s check.

Half the stuff would get the building condemned in a heartbeat if Kate were a fink and called the City, or would get them arrested under the Patriot Act or whatever. Seriously, what was Ironman thinking, dropping off what looked like a souped-up Gatling Gun for someone named Sgt Barnes? Kate’s never even heard of the guy, and wouldn’t Avengers Tower be a much more logical place for him to pick up his new toy?

The answer, of course, is simple: Clint never says no, not to any of his buddies. You go slay some slime creature, mafia thug or doom bot alongside him and you’re part of his inner circle for life - meaning you can come and crash on his couch, drink his beer and his coffee (which reminds Kate, it should have finished dripping by now) and borrow his t-shirts.

And, it appears, use his place as a drop box for inter-superhero deliveries.

She straightens out her t-shirt – it’s her favourite purple target one, but Clint is quite a bit bigger than her and it tends to fall off her shoulder – and pours herself a coffee.

“Well, Lucky,” she sighs and sets the cup down on an innocuous-enough-looking Amazon box addressed to Parker, Peter J. And no, she has no idea and does _not_ want to know what’s inside. It rattles ominously, though. “Guess we’re just gonna have to wait until the SHIELD hits the fan. In the meantime, the fridge is off limits. No more cold pizza for you, boy.”

Lucky mewls and sniffs at the empty pizza box, looks up at her hopefully and emits an encouraging series of barks that Kate could _swear_ sounds like “More. Pizza. Now.”

But the tone and content of the bark changes suddenly into a surprisingly ferocious growl, and he turns towards the fire escape, neck fur rising. Kate grabs her bow from the island and reaches for an arrow in one of the quivers beside it. By the time she straightens, arrow nocked, she is staring into the business end of a Glock. The safety is off.

“Who the hell are you?” demands a deep, melodious voice. Which is a bit rich, coming from someone who’s just barged into someone else’s apartment without a key or an invitation.

“K-K-Kate,” she stammers. Not because she’s scared of course, because Hawkeyes don’t scare that easily, but because this is the first time in about eighteen months someone’s got the drop on her like that, and it’s…off-putting. Plus, okay. A _little_ scared. The woman at the other end is after all one of Earth’s most lethal assassins: Natasha Romanoff, in the fire-headed flesh. 

“Bishop. Kate Bishop,” Kate elaborates, having gotten her voice under control. “Don’t you Avengers-type people ever knock or use a doorbell? Also, I’m dog sitting for Clint.”

The woman frowns; the gun doesn’t waver. If anything, she looks a little meaner.

“In his t-shirt?” she snarls. There’s steel in her voice, and not much mercy. “Where is he?”

“You must be the Black Widow,” Kate says, trying to remind her uninvited guest that introductions should really go both ways, and ignoring the 45 millimeters of Pretty Certain Death pointed at her head as best she can. She puts the bow on the island as a peace offering. “I’ve heard a _lot_ about you. Come on in, make yourself at home. Since you’re here already, anyway. I just made fresh coffee. Oh, and Clint is in Guatemala. He should be back later today or tomorrow, unless he’s in trouble again. Plus, I’m just borrowing the shirt.”

If that came out a bit babbly, well, Natasha Romanoff’s icy glare might have something to do with it.

The Black Widow makes the snap decision that Kate is not a serious threat, which is both a relief and oddly insulting. The Glock disappears somewhere underneath an extremely stylish leather jacket, or maybe in the equally stylish oversized purse she’s got slung over her shoulder; it’s hard to tell.

“You must be the baby archer he mentioned.”

_*Baby* archer? Clinton Francis Barton, you are in for a world of hurt._

“I’m nineteen,” Kate huffs.

“No offence,” Natasha says with the tiniest of smiles. She looks around the apartment in critical appraisal, her eyes arresting on Barnes’ giant gun thingy. “Why does Barnes store his stuff here?”

“Why does anybody? Or everybody?” Kate says. “Clint’s friends just fly up on the roof or walk in through the fire escape, like you just did, and leave stuff for each other. It’s like a pawnshop in here, only with WMD. Coffee?”

Natasha nods and allows Kate to fill one of Clint’s chipped mugs with a fine-smelling Colombian. She suddenly looks a little…embarrassed?

“About that,” she says. “I was about to drop something off myself. I was just going to leave it somewhere where Clint will find it, but the dog won’t.”

She dives into that enormous purse and hauls out a package. It’s heart-shaped and says _Neuhaus_ on it, but given how that Latinx guy once wrapped a live ant colony for some guy named Lang in a box of Cuban cigars, that doesn’t mean a thing. (Kate is still stepping on ants, too, a week after Lang picked up the package.)

“I hope that’s not radioactive, or needs to be put in the fridge?” she says, because someone has to put their foot down. “This place is violating several UN Security Council Resolutions already and the fridge is kind of off limits right now.”

“Food that’s developed legs?” Natasha asks, and nods knowingly even as she ignores the actual question. “That is _so_ Barton. Back in his old place, I once had to throw out a pile of those little soy sauce packets that expired in 2001. And that was in 2008.”

Kate doesn’t bother to correct her, because the milk is sitting right under Bobbie’s specimen collection beside the mead, and there is such a thing as too much information. She grunts something affirmative about Barton and food hygiene, but her mind is latching on to something else altogether.

Because... _hello?_ Natasha Romanoff was wandering in and out of Clint’s apartments _twelve years ago_? He’s been divorced for six. Married for two. She does the basic math. (It’s a good thing they’re still teaching it in school, even if trig and calculus are fucking useless unless you want to, well, teach math.)

One and one, the world will be happy to know, still make two, and twelve years minus Bobbi leaves at least four - three or two if you throw in some romance and cold feet before that wedding. Plus whatever came before the fridge incident _. Holy shit._

Kate clears her throat. This will have to be subtle, because that Glock – and who knows what else - is still on Romanoff’s person somewhere

“Were you guys, like, an item at one point? Seriously? Why’d he never mention it?”

Oh, oops. So much for subtlety. Maybe she’ll get points for bravery? Intriguingly, Natasha doesn’t look pissed off. Instead she swallows and pushes the package around the kitchen island with her fingertips for a moment, before grabbing her mug and taking a deep sip. Finally, she looks up and into Kate’s eyes.

“A long time ago.” She hesitates a little. “But we’re still best friends.”

Another hesitation, and another sip of coffee. This time she stares at the fire escape when adding in a funny tone, “At least so he informs me. Although…”

She leaves the sentence unfinished. Kate’s eyes fall on the heart-shaped box, the calendar on the wall, and another penny drops. Not radioactive then, that box, at least not in the conventional sense.

Before Kate can say anything that might get her shot Lucky yelps again. His feet scritch across the floor as he flies towards the door, where the sound of a key turning in the lock is just becoming audible to human ears. Lucky’s yelps turn into enthusiastic barking and sure enough, the door opens and there’s Clint.

He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, his hair is sticking out in every which direction and Kate counts at least three new visible bandages, but he greets Lucky as enthusiastically as Lucky greets him. For a moment there’s a lot of, “Who’s a good boy?” - _woof woof_ \- “Did you miss me?” - _inarticulate canine whine_ \- “Did you leave me any pizza? Did you?” and more woofing and slobbering sounds.

But, eventually, Clint looks up. He beams a brief fraternally fond grin at Kate, mouthing a _Thank you._ And then his eyes slide to the other end of the island and land on Natasha, who looks somehow smaller than Kate remembers from just a minute ago. His eyes widen.

“Wha…” he manages to croak out.

Awkward silence follows -except for Lucky, who continues dancing around Clint’s legs and butting him with his nose - during which Clint looks at Natasha in a way he’s never, ever once looked at Kate; it’s a mixture of surprise, hope, longing and utter panic.

Kate glances over at Natasha, and sees pretty much the same thing in her eyes. So much for the World’s (Second) Greatest Marksman, and the World’s Most Lethal Assassin. Clearly, they are also the world’s largest idiots, living out some stupidly epic RomCom that could have been reduced to a five-minute short if the protagonists only talked to each other.

Apparently it falls upon the side-kick - Kate - to speed up the ending and spare the audience – also Kate – another round of awkward silence.

“Okay, I’ll leave the two of you to it then,” she announces breezily. “Go and requite your pining. Clint, you need a shower. Natasha, hint: It’s a rain head, the one luxury in this place, and big enough for two. I’d wait for a few minutes though, until he’s clean. Lucky’s been fed, despite what he’ll tell you. Either of you, don’t eat anything from the fridge until after Bobbi comes by.”

She grabs the spare set of keys and her jacket off the hooks by the door. Just before she closes it behind her she turns one last time. They’re standing there, feet firmly planted to the floor, but at least they’re looking into each other’s eyes now.

“Oh, and save me some of those chocolates, will you?”


End file.
